


forgery

by wastrelwoods



Series: where the heart is [2]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Domesticity, M/M, Softe Boys, Vignette, doing each other's makeup, they're in love it seems like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-07 23:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11069592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastrelwoods/pseuds/wastrelwoods
Summary: Juno’s not really in the habit of sprucing himself up, these days.





	forgery

**Author's Note:**

> a nice soft prompt to help me back into writing mode from sarah @eternalgirlscout on tumblr, who's always encouraging and also a fantastic writer
> 
> uhhh this whole thing is also very inspired by "Portrait of Fryderek In Shifting Light", by Richard Siken. almost every line of that poem impacted this fic somehow? it's a fucking excellent poem, man,

Time seems to move slower around Juno, sometimes, when Peter is there. 

He’s never exactly had it down to a science, measuring the way the minutes tick by. Most of the time he feels delayed, like he’s sloughing through sand up to the waist. Like the rest of the universe is turning and expanding on a plane that’s just a few degrees shy of parallel to his own. Things that should take an instant, like a glance or a breath or a step forward, seem to go on for eons. Or things happen too fast, in a succession of lightning-strike moments that each contain years. Infinities. The space between the crackle of a laser and the light. 

Anyway. With Peter it’s the first one. Feels like any moment with him could last the rest of Juno’s life. 

He wanders out of the bathroom, towel slung around his hips, wet hair still sending cold little drips of water over his shoulders. Peter’s standing in front of the dresser on the other side of the room, his back to Juno, his dressing gown slipping low off one shoulder. Peering into a mirror, turning this way and that…it takes Juno a moment to recognize his movements for what they are. 

Juno’s not really in the habit of sprucing himself up, these days. Most days. Pretty much as long as he can remember. He’s got creams and powders and tubes and brushes all shoved into a bag somewhere in the bottom drawer of his desk, but it’s been months since he had the time or inclination to dig them out and put them to use. He rests a hip on the doorframe and leans his weight against it, watching. 

A short glance over his shoulder tells Juno that Peter knows he’s there. Maybe he’s feeling that same quiet lack of urgency, though, because he doesn’t speak, just flashes a smile and turns back to start dabbing his face with tinted lotion. 

From this angle, Juno can see two facets of him. Just two, never all sides at once. A little of his face from the left side, the tiny gold hoop shining in his ear; a little of the right, reflected in the mirror in front of him, tilted up to emphasize the sharp line of his jaw. He’s all angles, is Peter Nureyev. Some edges thrown into glowing relief and others cast in deeper shadow. Artificial, maybe, but maybe something more innocent than that. Not a mask. Just a little shifting of the light. 

Juno doesn’t call him beautiful. Peter doesn’t tease him for staring. There’s just quiet, and the low rasp of a brush over Peter’s smooth skin.

Without thinking much about it, or really even noticing, Juno drifts closer, perches on the bed beside him and stares up at Peter while he lines his eyes with black and his lips with red. He smooths gel through his thick, dark hair and shapes it into a style that seems almost effortless, and thumbs cologne over the pads of his wrists and the divot of his jugular. Then he pauses, and frowns. 

Peter reaches back for a different tube of tinted cream, and squeezes a tiny dot of it out onto a brush, sweeping the color over the side of his neck until the faint pink spiderweb of scars there fades. It’s a different motion to the rest of his routine. Not as practiced, and not as gentle. Juno grits his teeth as he watches. 

But with a little effort, all evidence of the burn mark is brushed away, and Peter re-adjusts the collar of his robe, lifting his glasses out of the pocket and sliding them on with a little sigh. He smiles down at Juno, and then leans down to push a lock of wet hair away from his face, planting a soft kiss on his temple that leaves a faint red stain. 

“You wanna,” he starts, fumbles the word and coughs before he tries again. “Wanna do that for me sometime?” 

Peter runs his fingers through Juno’s hair, his hip pressed against Juno’s side and the smell of his cologne bright and sharp in Juno’s nose. He hums in quiet agreement, and then echoes that hum louder, excited. “Why, love,” he breathes, “I’d be delighted to.”

Time stutters and stops again while Juno curls his fingers into Peter’s hips and breathes in deep, taking in another lungful of cologne tinged with the acidic tang of gel. “Do you have the time, uh, now?” he asks. 

Peter’s answering smile is as bright as a star. “You and I can always make time, Juno.” He runs his hands through Juno’s hair again, moving it back and out of the way before sliding a finger under his chin to tilt his face up. His head shifts to one side, and then the other, considering. 

He doesn’t bother with as many creams and lotions as he’d used on himself, just tests a few colored swatches on the back of Juno’s hand before dabbing the powders over his skin. His hands are gentle and steady, brushing over his cheeks and eyes and lips and then his cheeks again in slow, considerate movements. Juno keeps his gaze on Peter’s face, mostly, because he doesn’t seem to realize he’s sliding the tip of his tongue over his sharp teeth as he concentrates. He’s vaguely curious what Peter will be able to make of his rough, scar-lined face, but doesn’t let himself dwell on it. Too busy memorizing the feel of Peter’s fingertips. 

“Close your eye,” he chides, and Juno obeys. He feels the gentlest pressure of a brush over the paper-thin skin of his eyelid, and tries to keep still. He doesn’t quite manage to avoid flinching while the eyeliner goes on, but Peter just laughs under his breath and starts again. 

Most of the product Juno has used leaves his skin feeling heavy and tight, but either Peter’s using an incredibly light hand or--more likely--his whole pouch is full up with samples of the kind of top-of-the-line stuff that keeps Julian DiMaggio looking twenty years younger than he really is. 

There’s a long pause, and Juno opens his eye to see Peter poring over his collection of tubes and bottles thoughtfully. “Hard to find a color that goes with the eyepatch, huh?” 

“The trouble,” says Peter, careful, “Is that the instant I see this color on your mouth, I will be tempted to kiss you, and it will smear dreadfully.” 

Juno snorts, incredulous, but he goes on weighing the options, digging the points of his teeth into his lower lip. After another moment of consideration he selects a tube and turns back to Juno. The color glides on smooth and fast, leaving the barest tingle on his lips and a faint, sweet taste to his breath. Peter makes a delighted noise at the back of his throat, and caps the lipstain again before lifting Juno to his feet and showing him the mirror. 

The dame Juno sees reflected there might be himself, but you’d have to know it to recognize him. He stares, jaw slack. “That’s…”

“Ravishing,” Peter trills, leaning down and pressing a kiss at the line of Juno’s jaw. “Lovely. Perfect. You are…the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. Nothing in the whole galaxy could compare.” He keeps peppering Juno’s face with kisses between the words, and grinning at him between the kisses. 

Juno rolls his eye, and tugs him closer by the low collar of his dressing gown, kissing him full on the mouth to shut him up. When they break apart, the colors of their lipstain are mingled, smeared over Peter’s mouth like the brushstrokes of an abstract painting. It’s a good color. “I bet you say that to all the ladies.” 

Peter’s thumb rests on Juno’s chin, just below his lower lip, and his eyes are so bright they look hazy. “Maybe,” he agrees, his voice light and his breath heavy. 

The morning sunlight shines in through the window behind them, illuminating the bright sides of Peter’s face and bathing the rest in gentle shadows. Casting the planes of Juno’s face in a different light than it does most days. Showing something beautiful, but not exactly new. 

Juno reaches up to brush away a smudge of red at the side of Peter’s mouth, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> also im @wastrelwoods on tumblr


End file.
